


i forgot your name but i made you this cake

by GuenVanHelsing



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Cake, Dirty Talk, Forgetful Din Djarin, Implied/Referenced Sex, Inappropriate Cake Decorating, M/M, Public Display of Affection, he has good excuses i swear, it is possible that the author is craving grilled cheese, kedalbe kiss, self-indulgent AU, two cakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29972595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuenVanHelsing/pseuds/GuenVanHelsing
Summary: Morning Din had thought it would be a good idea.AfternoonDin was regretting his decisions to bake a cake as a gift for someone he’d had a one-night stand with.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 25
Kudos: 74





	i forgot your name but i made you this cake

**Author's Note:**

> saw [this cake](https://cling2something.tumblr.com/post/644579339138138112/ig-threateningcake/) on tumblr, lost all sense of self-control and common sense, and wrote a self-indulgent au once again
> 
> thank you to [@smilecapsules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilecapsules//) for the fic title!
> 
> come join us over on the [DinCobb server](https://discord.gg/aVGkGNdtV6/) to chat about the ship, if you'd like! <3

Din had a Tupperware container in his hands, balanced carefully to keep it flat and away from stray elbows from where he was crowded into the subway car. Wouldn’t do to have it get crushed before he could even deliver it. 

Morning Din had thought it would be a good idea. 

Afternoon Din was regretting his decisions to bake a cake as a gift for someone he’d had a one-night stand with — all he had was the man’s number scrawled on his arm in sharpie, and the address of the cafe he was supposed to meet him at scribbled underneath it. 

How the guy had managed to squeeze that much blocky text into the space between Din’s tattoos and still have it legible was a mystery to Din. 

_ Also _ a mystery to him? 

What the man’s goddamn  _ name _ was. 

He was pretty sure the guy had told him, somewhere in between crossing paths in the crowded bar and shouting to be heard about the music and conversation, and agreeing to take it back to Din’s apartment so they could hear each other talk. 

Then there hadn’t been much talking, other than the requisite  _ More, more, just like that, y-eah, harder, _ etc., that spilled out of Din’s mouth while the other man fucked him right into the mattress like he was made for it. 

Din’s ass was still sore, and it had been  _ worth _ it. 

So what if the guy had kissed him goodnight while Din was laying in a boneless, satisfied puddle on his own bed and pulled on his clothes and left, afterward. That was fine, wasn’t it? They weren’t  _ dating. _

Kinda hard to date someone you don’t know the name of, wasn’t it? 

_ God, _ why couldn’t he  _ remember? _

Din stepped off the subway and jogged up the stairs to the street, checking the address on his arm one more time before heading up the sidewalk. If he’d looked at the map correctly, the cafe shouldn’t be too far from the subway stop. 

He’d even made  _ frosting.  _ God. This was weird. At least he hadn’t made the entire cake from scratch, it was just a box mix cake, but he’d found a bag of confectioners sugar in his cupboards and  _ made goddamn frosting _ to put on it. Even mixed in some food colouring, although it had come out much lighter than he’d expected — probably since he’d been terrified to put  _ too _ much in and have it come out looking like mud, and the results were a pale lavender and a bit of pink for the flowers he’d amateurishly piled on with more frosting. 

When he’d put the lid on the Tupperware, he hadn’t been too impressed with his efforts, but at least he’d  _ tried, _ right? 

And the guy — what the fuck was his  _ name _ —  _ had _ said he liked cake. So. It was  _ reasonable _ to make a cake for someone who had given Din a fucking so good he’d momentarily forgotten his own name and  _ actually _ forgotten the other guy’s, wasn’t it?

_ Wasn’t _ it? 

Din had almost convinced himself this was normal, understandable behaviour when he found the street number that matched the address on his arm. 

It wasn’t a cafe. 

It was a  _ bakery. _

“Oh, god,” moaned Din, staring through the tall glass windows at the display cases of cakes and pastries. He checked the address again and, yep, this was the right place. 

And he had the  _ shittiest cake _ ever made in a Tupperware in his arms. 

“Going in?” grumbled a voice behind him, and Din jumped, nearly dropping his Tupperware. The man he’d been blocking from the door glared at him over his sunglasses and stomped inside, begrudgingly holding the door until Din got the message and followed him in, trying not to stare at the tattoos covering the man’s arms in full sleeves, all the way up to where his muscle tee started on his shoulders. “Dumbass.” 

“Hey,” said Din, eyes narrowing, but the man wasn’t listening to him, just marched up to the counter to place an order, leaving Din to stand, bewildered, in the middle of the small area crowded with little tables, each one covered in a pretty tablecloth with little bottles holding colourful flowers on them. 

“Sorry, Boba, your order is almost finished, just waiting for the frosting to cool,” came a voice, filtering over the quiet conversations of the few occupied tables, and Din stood there frozen, clutching his Tupperware in suddenly sweaty hands, as the guy he’d made the cake for  _ stepped out of the Employee’s Only door _ wearing an honest to god apron over his shirt and jeans. He looked even better than he had in the dim lighting of the bar, although maybe not quite as good as he’d looked in Din’s bed— 

“Oh!” he said, spotting Din, and he smiled, wide and unfettered. “I see you found the place. I’m on break as soon as I finish up this guy’s nonsense—”

“This guy,” muttered the tattooed man,  _ Boba, _ he’d been called, a little derisively, and Din’s one-night stand stuck out his tongue at him. 

Oh, god. 

_ “—as I was saying,” _ he continued, as if Boba hadn’t said a word, “I can be with you in just a moment, Din.” And he was off, back through that door, gone in a swish of his apron. 

The guy remembered his name. 

Now he  _ really _ felt bad about forgetting  _ his. _

Boba tilted his sunglasses, looking at Din over the top of them. “Din, is it,” he said. It wasn’t a question. With the low gravel of his voice, it actually sounded more like a  _ threat. _ “Name sounds familiar.” 

“Um,” said Din, not helpfully at all. He cleared his throat, and tried to ease his white-knuckled grip on the Tupperware. “I’m not sure we’ve met.” 

“Not sure we have,” said Boba, dismissive, and glanced at Din’s Tupperware. “Never considered bringing my own box, before.” 

“It’s not— it’s for—” Din gestured uselessly at the door his one-night stand had gone through.  _ Why _ couldn’t he remember the guy’s  _ name? _

It had something to do with food, he was pretty sure. 

Partly sure. 

Not really sure. 

Maybe the guy had a name tag on his apron, surely that made sense— 

The guy was  _ not  _ wearing the apron when he popped out of that door again, holding a large bakery box in his hands, which looked a sight better than Din’s Tupperware. And he was  _ smiling _ at Din, warm and friendly, that same wicked glint in his eyes he’d had right before yanking Din’s trousers down around his ankles the previous night. 

“Hey, again,” he said, and the memory of that sultry voice murmuring  _ Again? _ into his ear while Din had come gasping on the other man’s fingers had Din clutching at his poor Tupperware, which he was surprised hadn’t yet bent into the shape of his fingers. “Still good for lunch?” 

“Yeah,” said Din, his voice more breathless than he’d intended, mainly because the other man had patted his shoulder and trailed those teasing fingers down his arm as he strode past him. “Lunch is— good.” 

Boba cast him an unimpressed look over his glasses, making a  _ shooing  _ motion with one hand, and Din gulped, spinning around and hurrying after Mr One-Night Stand And Let’s Have Lunch Tomorrow, who was already halfway to the door. 

This was  _ not _ a one-night stand anymore, was it? 

He certainly hadn’t ever gone to a fancy little diner right down the street from where his  _ one-night stand worked _ to eat lunch together before, yet here he was, with this beautiful, hazel-eyed man with a smile so warm it stabbed right through Din’s chest like a knife through hot butter, sitting in such a small booth that their knees were knocking together. 

What was he  _ doing? _

“Here,” he said, shoving the Tupperware across the tabletop to the other man after they’d placed their order with the waiter — grilled cheese and ham with a side Caesar salad, and a fruit bowl to share, for his… date? and the same for Din, because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the other man for long enough to give the menu enough attention to retain some of the words printed on it. “This is— for you.” 

“Oh!” said the other man, eyes widening, and he smiled again, so sweetly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Well, that’s real sweet of you! Thank you.” And he pushed his bakery box around the Tupperware, the thin cardboard bumping into Din’s knuckles, where he’d left his hand on the table.  _ “This _ is for you, actually.” 

Din blinked. “For  _ me?” _ And he blanched, seeing the other man start to pry up the lid of the Tupperware. “I should probably warn you, I’m not much of a baker—”

“Oh my  _ fucking god,” _ breathed the other man, and he  _ wheezed, _ his whole body bending forward like a birch tree in a strong wind, face creased with laughter as he pried the rest of the cover off. “Oh my  _ god, _ I can’t believe—” 

“Sorry?” tried Din, smiling sheepishly at the businessmen in fancy suits at the table next to them who glared in unison at the rise in noise. The silver-haired man across from him was still laughing, clearly trying to calm himself but unable to keep a wide grin from his face. “I— it wasn’t really what— well, it  _ is _ what I meant to— it’s not—” 

“This,” said the other man, resting one — very warm — hand over Din’s on the bakery box, “is the fucking  _ best _ present I’ve ever gotten on my birthday.  _ Ever. _ Holy  _ shit, _ Din, I—” He took his hand back, pressing it to his chest as he tried to get his laughter under control again. “Fucking  _ perfection.” _

Din peered into the open Tupperware, eyeing his creation. The cake had slid a little during his journey, frosting smeared on the inside of the box, but it was mostly intact — even the words were still legible, even though the frosting had spread a little, making the text blobbier than he’d intended.  _ Nice cock, _ in purple block font, all in frosting. “There’s a cream filling in the center, if that helps,” he said, and the other man’s face was  _ red, _ choking into his hand as he started laughing all over again. “It was  _ not _ easy to put it in there.” 

Which was, he realised, kind of what he’d said to the other man the previous night, on the topic of getting that  _ very _ nice cock into his ass, which Din had spent a good minute fumbling while the other man had offered politely to help when it slipped through his lube-slick fingers and missed his hole by a long shot. Didn’t seem fair that not only was the other man absolutely stunning to look at, and very sweet, but he was also  _ fucking enormous _ in the nether regions. 

Thus, the cake. To celebrate that fact. 

Then it clicked what the other man had said. “It’s your  _ birthday?” _

“Yeah, it is,” said the other man, biting his lip, still grinning. Din wanted to kiss him again, actually. Right then and there, over the table and the silly cake he’d made, and the bakery box he hadn’t opened yet. 

“Happy birthday?” he tried, and he could feel his face reddening more than it already had, all the way up to his ears. “I’m just gonna— yeah.” And he opened the bakery box. 

The cake inside was considerably more stable than Din’s — he hoped that wasn’t a metaphor for his mental state — and had lovely little pink frosting flowers all around the base, leading up to a very becoming darker shade of pink for the top of the cake. 

And the words, in delicate, curlicue script of some sort of gel frosting that looked like it had been a lot easier to write with than Din’s plastic baggie with a hole snipped into a corner:  _ I’d eat you out any day. _ And he was pretty sure the pattern of lines and blobs of frosting lining the top of the cake were— 

Oh, yeah, those were definitely dick-shaped. 

“Oh my god,” he whispered, and then he was grinning across the table at the other man. “I— had no idea you were a baker.” 

“Didn’t know you were one, either,” said his  _ date, _ because if that cake wasn’t an invitation to have another night — or seven, or seven thousand, Din wasn’t picky — then he didn’t know what it was. And the bastard stuck a finger into the cake to swipe up some frosting, popping it into his mouth to suck off, and— 

Oh, yeah, Din was  _ definitely _ remembering the precise feeling of those lips and that tongue on his dick from last night. 

“Thank you,” he said, belatedly, and the other man just grinned. 

“Thank  _ you,” _ said the other man, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Wasn’t sure if I’d see you again, really, and the thought of eating that cake alone in my apartment while crying over Netflix specials didn’t seem like the best way to end my birthday, y’know?” 

“I’ll help you,” said Din, before his brain caught up with his mouth. 

“What? Eat the cake?” 

That, too. But— “Help you,” said Din, and the other man’s eyebrows lifted. “Enjoy your birthday.” 

“That so?” said the other man, and the smile that spread over his pretty features was  _ hungry, _ and Din knew it wasn’t for the cakes on their table, or the food on the trays the waiter was bringing toward them, heeled boots clicking sharply on the floor. “And how would you do that, Din?” 

Din waited for their meals to be set down and for the waiter to leave before he leaned forward, bending his head close to the other man’s as he did the same, as if sharing a secret. “Well, first, I’d make you forget your own name,” he murmured, letting his voice drop, and when he breathed in all he could taste was the toasted bread and cheese under his nose, and something else, something bourbon and salty and cinnamon that had nothing to do with the food on their plates. “With just my hands, and my mouth, until I’ve kissed the taste of cake right out of you and taken your name with it.” 

“Oh?” breathed the other man, and this close to him, Din had a lovely view of the specks of green and yellow in his hazel eyes. 

“And then,” said Din, letting out a sigh, “I’m gonna have to ask you to remember it, because apparently you fucked it right out of me last night.” 

The other man made a choking noise, low in his throat, and his head tilted forward, his forehead resting against Din’s, trembling slightly as he shook with laughter. “That’s alright, sweetheart, I ain’t offended. It’s—” 

_ “Cobb,” _ breathed Din, and  _ Cobb Vanth _ was laughing at him again, a hand reaching up to grip the back of Din’s neck, warm and grounding. “Jesus, I’d really forgotten til just now.”

Cobb huffed another laugh and lifted his head, pressing a kiss to Din’s forehead before he let go and settled back into his own seat, picking up his sandwich and grinning across the table at Din. “Guess I’ll just have to make you forget it again, won’t I?” 

And Din nearly choked on his own sandwich when Cobb shifted forward in his seat to better eat over his plate, and his knee slid easily between Din’s legs, settling firmly against Din’s dick, trapped in his jeans, Cobb’s smile perfectly innocent when Din gaped at him, whatever words he’d had in his mouth rubbed away with the same shift of Cobb’s knee pressing into his crotch and stealing the breath from his lungs.

Yeah, this was gonna be a  _ very _ interesting lunch. 


End file.
